Even so, what spurred the creation of the notice and the subsequent mythos surrounding Ivan was not clear. A billion suggestions floated through the galaxy from all manner of conspiracy theorists. Indeed my esteemed and unbalanced friend, Dr. Trevors, was likely not the first to suggest Ivan as some manner of obliteration technology with or without the android portion.
I discovered the existence of Captain Josef Onnels after a not insignificant amount of digging. His destroyer- class vessel, the Cassander, ran a patrol route for many years in a particular sector of the rim not far removed from Atropos Garden. Records not often accessible to the public stated that the ship had received a distress signal and was first on scene. Depending upon who told it, they either witnessed the destruction and were helpless to stop it, or they arrived too late and saw only the aftermath.
My assumption was that either he himself or someone on his crew became the source which carried Ivan’s name to the stars. Onnels and the Cassander became a priority.
Though I happen to have a great many contacts and a high amount of influence, boarding a military vessel and questioning its captain was somewhat out of my range of abilities. Fortunately, I discovered a refueling station visited by the Cassander with some frequency.
Marxis type stations differ significantly from the Dei Lucrii. Less a hub of trade and variety and more a dingy stop-over point for large cargo vessels, they exist for fueling and base amenities out on the rim.
The usual authorities granted my docking request, and I was pleased to note my appropriate timing. The mammoth destroyer was berthed outside, almost half the size of the station itself and boasting significant firepower. Dozens of lines for fuel and supplies snaked out of the station and connected to the Cassander.
I wrapped myself in my usual cloak, donning a facial wrap and gloves in a mild attempt to disguise my mechanical nature. The risk for assault was moderate, but it wasn’t fear of damage which motivated my attempt at concealment. I had strong doubts that any drunken miner or cargo-pilot could match me in any physical or mental fashion. Though the prospect of knocking around a few illiterates was alluring indeed, I was not there for that purpose. Any such confrontations would inevitably waste time.
My feature-concealing garb drew a few suspicious glances as I passed through the check-in point and moved into the market area, but no one spoke to or accosted me. Milling around the crowd, I spotted a few crew members in uniform. No one was of significant enough rank to be worth speaking to.
I had hoped to see a member of the command staff, but I didn’t know if any of them would depart the ship for any reason. It was too much to hope Captain Onnels himself would be out and about, but I kept an image of him and the flight crew in a recent memory file in case I happened to spot one. Five minutes would be all I’d need.
I continued my walk through the market, cringing at the filthy sights and smells of dirty stalls containing worthless trinkets and food of questionable edibility. As time passed, I started to regret not contacting the Cassander directly to attempt to set-up a short meeting.
In cases of highly questionable cooperation, I try to catch my potential source off-guard rather than to give them the opportunity to deny me access or time to craft a suitably false story. Failing to find someone of importance, I considered speaking with one of the underling crew members when I saw someone else.
A flicker of light glinted off of a metallic limb not twenty feet away. A wary eye not made of organic flesh stared at me, scanning and scrutinizing. A sudden awareness of hunter and prey developed with no certainty toward who was which. An outward hiss of breath resulted as concrete realization struck, catching up with brutal instinct.
Someone jostled me, and another patron crossed between us. In the nanosecond of distraction, the figure disappeared.
All manner of thought related to my presence on the station and the inquiry I was attending vanished, driven away. Pulse quickening, I slid through the crowd, flitting every spectrum of scan available through my synthetic eye.
Stinking organic gas bags swarmed all around, stifling and choking me with their absurd idiocy. Electrical signals in neon lighting and cooking grills. Body heat surrounded by the cool metal bulkheads. Nothing but squishy, intellectually-devoid…
There: disappearing out at the end of the large chamber, the shape of a human hand without the heat of flesh. I smiled, hurrying through the milling people, obsession devouring all else.
Corridors flitted by, each time I saw naught but a flash of cloak as my quarry disappeared around another corner. Abandoning caution, I followed.
The Archivist whose name I did not know stood at the end of a short, empty hallway. The cold metal of the bulkheads surrounded us, and a sealed hatchway lay at her back.
Her. I blinked in surprise. The heat signature emanating from skull region betrayed the significant upgrades needed for an Archivist, but the shape of her body was most definitely feminine.
Her being female was a momentary surprise making no difference to the fact that we were about to fight to the death. Archivists are most often the product of industrial accidents. Whether there were fewer female workers or they were less prone to fatal mistakes, I didn’t know. Regardless, female Archivists are a rarity.
It made no difference to myself or to her; I could see the same calculating expression, each of us deciding the best way to win quickly and quietly. The idiotic allure of physical intimacy was not a question or an answer. Such base, organic needs pale in the face of fresh data, the kind only we can attain.
I almost laughed. One prosthetic limb and eye, mild skeletal and muscle augmentations. She was young, a polar opposite to Cain with so much human flesh thus far only mildly tinged with the ashen pigment. No concealable weapons, I marveled at her bravery and inexperience. It made me almost pity the slight increase in her heart rate: a tinge of fear as she realized her chances of beating me were slim.
Nothing registered on her face, which remained as cold and hungry as my own. A flicker of doubt passed over my mind; my calculation suggested her odds of beating me were about as good as my own against Cain. No, she had something else I hadn’t detected.
I was already committed. Rather than risk a more clever mental opponent jamming my consciousness somewhere else, much like I did with Cain, I locked down every wireless port under the most obstructive security I could manage. Without further hesitation, my hand shot forward.
Four needles erupted from my fingertips, pressure-fired and sinking into the other Archivist’s flesh before her eyes widened in realization. As the tranquilizer sped into her bloodstream, I knew the fight was already all but finished.
She met my charge with a standing kick, her movement fast and vicious. I pivoted, allowing the strike to glance off my metal shoulder. I used the opening to plant an open-hand chop at her neck. Twisting, she attempted to dodge, but my blow struck her cheek. She staggered, off-balance with little damage done as I pressed the attack.
We fought, blocking and parrying with small hits chipping away at each other. Her movements became sluggish as the tranquilizer battled the scrubbers in her blood and brain. More of my strikes connected, but she fought on.
She overextended in a hook that carried body weight behind it. Seeing the opening, I braced my weight against it, taking the hit to position one of my own. My head snapped to the side, my jaw wrenched close to the point of breaking as my own fist struck her into her solar plexus.
Gasping, she doubled over as the wind rushed out of her lungs. I seized her shoulders, saw the fear and recognition in her eyes, and slammed my metallic head plate into her normal skull.
She fell to the deck, unconscious.
Her death was rapid, painless, and what followed does not merit discussion. Unlike Cain, I take no particular pleasure in the act of murder or extraction of the implants. She was the third Archivist I’ve killed, the vestiges of their memories and data still haunting the inside of my skull.
There will always be regret, but it won’t stop me or any other Archivist from continuing this pattern over and over.
A feeling of sheer ecstasy mingled with the guilt of murder as I absorbed the data from her implants. Finding something of importance, my consciousness was swept away, lost in memory.
“Good afternoon, Captain Onnels,” I said in a voice that wasn’t mine, extending someone else’s hand to the man in uniform. Bars on his shoulders confirmed the title, and I recognized his face as being the subject of my recent search.
